


Captive Heart

by imaginary_golux



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Romance Novel, Bodice-Ripper, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Pirates, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-11 16:39:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10469505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_golux/pseuds/imaginary_golux
Summary: Poe Dameron's life is in tatters when his island home is ransacked and he's captured by privateers flying under the flag of the First Order. He's even more surprised when one of his captors turns out to be Captain Finnaeus, a pirate of the worst reputation. The problem is, Finn needs Poe to help him make his daring escape - but will Poe's heart be safe in the process?Inspired by the Star Wars Writing Alliance, art by the marvelous topographical-map-of-utah, beta by my very patient Best Beloved.





	1. Chapter 1

“Unhand me, you poltroons!” Poe yelps as the blank-faced pirates haul him inexorably towards the looming hulk of their dreadful ship. “Give me but a sword and face me like warriors, you black-hearted scum!”

The pirates ignore him magnificently, and though Poe does his best to slow their progress, there are far too many of them - and with his wrists bound, he cannot struggle from their iron grips. As they reach the ship, moored to the largest pier on D’Qar Isle, two of the pirates shove him ruthlessly up the gangplank, and Poe keeps his balance only by the thinnest of margins, staggering across the deck of the black ship until at last he fetches up against the mast. Another pair of hard-handed pirates pin him there and search him with rough efficiency, finding, to Poe’s immense chagrin, both of his boot daggers; and then one of them, laughing, takes his boots as well, and another strips his shirt from him, before they shove him down onto his knees among a growing crowd of other captives. Poe shifts himself towards the front of the group, shuffling awkwardly on his knees, hoping desperately to shield some of the young men and women behind him.

He has to admit the pirates are _very_ efficient. It is barely an hour since the alarm bells had begun to ring over D’Qar Isle before the black ship puts out to sea again, bearing the loot of the island and dozens of captives. Their timing, too, is damnably good - Admiral Leia and her fleet are due back to D’Qar within _days_ , but unless they manage to arrive before the black ship clears the bay, there is very little chance they could actually catch up to the pirates in time to rescue their unfortunate captives.

Poe braces himself as the captain of the pirates strides down onto the deck. He is not a large man, Poe sees - not much larger than Poe himself - but he carries himself as if he knows well how to use the sword at his hip, and there is clear intelligence in the lines of his face and the expression in his dark eyes. His clothing is simple, which surprises Poe more than a little - pirate captains _normally_ take the opportunity given them by their raids to dress as magnificently as possible, but this man wears as simple a shirt and trousers as any of his men, and his hat has no plumes upon it. The only sign of his high rank is the red sash about his waist, a slash of color that draws the eye inexorably, standing out both against the white of his unstained shirt and the deep brown of his skin. He stands surveying his captives thoughtfully for a long, dreadful moment. Poe draws himself up a little taller on his knees and meets his captor’s eyes squarely. If there is to be some dreadful fate awaiting them, let it fall upon Poe, and not one of the innocents behind him.

“You’d be wise to bring us back,” he says to the pirate captain, as boldly as he can. “My name is Poe Dameron, and I am a friend to Admiral Organa - she will come looking for me.”

The pirate captain throws back his head and laughs, long and heartily; around him, all the other pirates join the merriment with their own guffaws. Poe keeps his head high and tries not to flinch from the raucous sound.

“Take them to the brig and lock them in,” says the pirate captain, once he stops chuckling, and then, before Poe can heave a sigh of relief that he has not managed to make their treatment any _worse_ , adds, “except that one. Take him to my quarters.”

And points right at Poe.

Hard hands fasten on Poe’s bare arms, and before he can even begin to struggle, he is being hauled across the deck and tossed, none too gently, in through the door to the captain’s quarters. Behind him, he can hear the other captives crying out in pain or fear as they are also hauled away.

He lands on a surprisingly soft surface - a rug, he sees as he struggles back to his knees, fumbling with bound hands - and whirls to face the door, only to be struck in the face by a mass of cloth. “Make yerself pretty for the captain, and mayhap he’ll go easy on ye,” one of the pirates advises him, with a coarse guffaw, and then the door _snicks_ shut, leaving Poe alone in the quarters of the captain of the black ship.

The first order of business, of course, is to deal with his bound hands, and Poe finds a penknife on the surprisingly orderly desk and sets to work. Cutting through thick hemp rope with a penknife is an exercise in frustration - and remarkably bad for the penknife - but Poe manages it at last, and tosses the mangled rope aside with a soft oath. The now-blunt penknife would make a very bad weapon, but it is the best Poe has, and he keeps it close to hand as he surveys his new surroundings.

The room is small - well, shipboard rooms always are - and, to Poe’s continuing surprise, quite plainly furnished. There is a proper bed, as befits the quarters of a captain, and the orderly desk, and a washbasin with a lamp beside it on gimbals, and a chest at the foot of the bed for clothing - besides that and the rug upon the floor, nothing.

Nothing except the heap of cloth the pirate had thrown at Poe. Gingerly, Poe picks it up and shakes it out, fumbling with pale green silk and black corseting, to find - a dress.

Poe blinks at it for a while. The implications are - worrying. Very worrying. The dress _itself_ is quite nice, well-made and not damaged, but the meaning behind it -

Better Poe than one of the youngsters, though, one of the wide-eyed youths or maidens who had huddled behind him on the deck and are now, hopefully, confined in the dubious safety of the brig. But would it be better to play along, to give this pirate captain what he desires in an effort to keep his attention firmly on Poe - or to fight back, even knowing it would almost certainly be futile? Certainly Poe’s attempt at defiance on the deck seemed to amuse the pirate captain; would continued defiance also amuse the brute, or simply cause him to switch his attentions to some poor soul less capable of surviving them than Poe?

Poe is, in fact, still puzzling when the cabin door swings open again to admit the very object of his cogitation. The pirate captain steps in, closing the door firmly behind him, and hangs his hat upon a hook on the wall, revealing short-cropped dark hair, then leans back against the closed door with his arms crossed over his chest - very _strong_ arms, Poe cannot help noticing, and a very broad chest too - and regards Poe levelly for long moments.

Poe stares back, heart in his mouth, and tries to think of what best to say - but without some hint of what the pirate captain _wants_ , anything he says is as like as not to be the wrong thing, and Poe dares not essay any words which would, nearly inevitably, be the wrong ones.

Finally the pirate captain speaks, his voice far less harsh than it had been upon the deck. “My name is Finnaeus, and I am captain of the privateer _Devastation_ , under the command of Admiral Armitage Hux and in the service of the First Order,” he says softly.

Poe gulps. Captain Finnaeus of the _Devastation_ is a name well-known to the people of D’Qar. His reputation for utter ruthlessness - and terrifying efficiency - has spread across the seas in the last few years, and it sometimes seems that every new ship to dock in D’Qar’s bay brings a story of the dread pirate and his cruel crew - tales of his skill with a blade, his immense tactical intelligence, his ship’s incredible speed.

Captain Finnaeus nods, as though he knows exactly what is going through Poe’s mind. Probably he _does_ \- surely he knows what his reputation is among the people of the Republic.

But if those words filled Poe with fear, then the pirate’s next words chill Poe to the bone: “I have been looking for a personal friend of Admiral Organa’s for a long time.”

Poe goes still with terror, the stillness of a trapped animal, and then Captain Finnaeus glances to one side, at the shuttered window beside the door, and strides forward swiftly, seizing Poe’s upper arms in firm but strangely gentle hands and bowing his head to speak directly in Poe’s ear, so softly that no one further away could possibly hear a word.

“If you wish to survive, you must act as though you are being ravaged, by such a beast as you believe me to be,” he murmurs. “Scream, beg - convince those on the deck without that I am bare inches from slaying you.”

Poe gulps again, glances up a scant inch into the fathomless dark eyes of his captor, and then, trembling, tilts his head back and screams as high and shrill and desperate as he possibly can. It must be sorely unpleasant for the pirate captain, such a terrible sound so near his ears, but Captain Finnaeus does not flinch, only nods approvingly and steers Poe slowly and carefully across the floor to stand beside the bed, then releases one of Poe’s arms to reach down and slap a hand against the bedpost. The _crack_ resounds through the room, and Poe, recognizing his cue, screams again, more hoarsely and despairingly than before.

Poe has acted before, a few times, in amateur productions, but he would swear before any court in the land that he has never put on so fine a performance as he does tonight, his screams turning slowly to desperate sobbing and hoarse, half-whispered begging, so that to any listeners, he is quite sure, it sounds as though he has been beaten half to death and ravaged besides. But besides that steady, gentle hand upon his arm, Captain Finnaeus does not touch him; and when at last Poe has imitated, as best he can, the sounds of a man sobbing himself into helpless silence, Captain Finnaeus guides him down to sit upon the bed and nods approvingly.

“The stage lost a fine actor in you,” he murmurs, so softly Poe has to strain his ears to hear it. “Sleep as you can. I will explain all when it is safe to do so.”

Poe curls up on the remarkably comfortable bed obediently, sure that he will never be able to get to sleep; but the terror of the day has worn him out entirely, and he does not quite notice as he slips quietly into slumber.


	2. Chapter 2

Poe wakes all at once, as is his habit, acquired from long years at sea - though while on land he does prefer to lounge abed as long as possible, reveling in the dearth of duties awaiting him - and knows, even as he wakes, where he is. The pirate captain is not in the bed with him, to Poe’s immense relief and greater startlement, and as Poe peers cautiously around the dimly dawn-lit cabin he sees the slumped form of Captain Finnaeus upon the wooden chair, his head resting on his folded arms atop the desk. Poe blinks in surprise, beginning to sit up, and the noise wakes his captor, who is on his feet in a scant moment with a dagger in his hand. Poe freezes in place, groping desperately for the half-forgotten penknife before he sees it again lying in its proper place upon the desk; but after a long, breathless moment, Captain Finnaeus puts up his dagger and nods politely to his captive, then glances meaningfully at the shuttered window.

“Good morning, _beautiful_ ,” the pirate captain says, his voice a leer which does not show at all upon his face. Poe blinks at him, then at the window, and then, thinking as quickly as he ever has in his life, replies, in tones he hopes are suitably faint and fearful, “Good morning...sir?”

The captain chuckles, an impressively filthy sound, and nods approvingly at Poe. “Now, if you’d just been this respectful last night, we could have avoided some of that...unpleasantness,” he says, loud enough to be heard by anyone eavesdropping, and then crosses the room in a single long stride to lean down over the bed, his mouth scant inches from Poe's ear.

“Remain within the cabin,” he murmurs. “My boy will bring you food, but do not think to leave - my crew would expect bruises, and if they discover our pretense, we shall both be slain.”

Poe nods his understanding and curls up beneath the covers so that only his hair and eyes are exposed, composing his face into an expression of fear and misery. Captain Finnaeus nods his approval again and then whirls from the bed, snatching his hat from the hook and striding out onto the deck with such vigor and so broad a cruel grin that if Poe did not know better, he would have quite believed the pirate captain had indeed spent half the night abusing some poor innocent and the other half asleep in his own comfortable bed, not curled into a hard-backed wooden chair to spare his unharmed captive some measure of distress.

The door slams shut behind the captain, and Poe shifts into a more comfortable position beneath the covers and attempts to sift through the events of the past day to make some sort of sense of them.

Item the first: Captain Finnaeus led a successful raid upon the island of D’Qar, winning many captives and much booty from that peaceful isle.

Item the second: aside from assorted bruises and contusions acquired during the actual raid, none of those captives have been injured - including, bafflingly, Poe himself, who has spent the entire night in the pirate captain’s quarters.

Item the third: Captain Finnaeus has been looking for a personal friend of Admiral Organa’s, not, as his crew doubtless believes, in order to do that person great harm, but - for a reason that can only be explained in some place and time of safety.

Item the fourth: Captain Finnaeus is worried that his crew would do them _both_ harm should they learn he had not actually beaten Poe into broken submission.

Conclusion: _something strange is going on._

Poe snorts a little at his own thought processes, and then freezes beneath the heavy blanket as the door creaks open. There is the soft patter of small feet, and then a boy’s shrill voice says, “Captain told me bring you breakfast and wash-water, and you’re not to leave the cabin!”

Poe uncurls a little and peers out from his blanket huddle to find a tall, slender boy standing beside the desk, having clearly just put down a tray of food and a pitcher of water upon it.

“I shan’t,” Poe says, and the boy nods and goes scampering out again, shutting the door firmly behind him. Poe eyes the door warily as he slides out of the remarkably comfortable bed. Captain Finnaeus might not go in for ostentatious displays of wealth, but the few furnishings he _does_ have are clearly of the highest quality. A discerning sort of pirate - a clever one, too. What on _earth_ does he want with Poe?

The meal is simple enough - hardtack, small beer, a wizened apple - but the sudden realization that he has not eaten since luncheon the day before gives savor to the food, and Poe devours every crumb, then takes advantage of the pitcher of water to scrub some of the traces of fear-sweat and grime from his skin. He isn’t - quite - sure enough of his safety to raid the pirate captain’s clothes chest, though, which leaves him either shirtless - and bootless, not that he expects the pirate captain’s spare boots, if he had such, to fit him - or wearing...well. The dress.

...Shirtless, then, Poe decides. He isn’t _quite_ prepared to sacrifice all his remaining dignity, whatever remains of it.

Which leaves him with very little do for the remainder of the day. He doesn’t quite dare open the shutters on the window to observe the goings-on - after all, if he can look out, other people can look _in_ , and presumably those shutters are closed for a reason - and looking out the portholes provides only the vaguely useful information that the ship is at sea, which Poe would have known by the movement of the deck in any case.

For lack of any better idea, Poe seats himself at the desk, moving the tray aside carefully, and amuses himself by going through the drawers. Captain Finnaeus is as orderly in his habits as the tidiest librarian could desire; each pen has its own designated compartment, the penknife its own slot. Poe takes a few minutes with a whetstone - which is, of course, kept tidily beside the penknife - to sharpen the poor dull thing, though he suspects that a penknife would be a truly pitiful weapon against Capain Finnaeus’ impressive reflexes, should Poe ever _need_ to attempt to harm his captor.

In the second drawer of the desk is a folded piece of paper, labeled _Poe_ in a clear, tidy copperplate hand. Poe blinks at it for long minutes, then picks it up gingerly with the very tips of his fingers and spreads it out upon the desk to read.

*

The note is very short, and nearly as baffling as everything _else_ about this entire situation.

 _Poe Dameron,_ it reads, in that same tidy copperplate - Captain Finnaeus’, clearly - _I will not apologize for the danger in which you find yourself, for had any of my colleagues among the captains of Admiral Hux’s fleet been responsible for your capture, you would not be in danger, but already consigned to the depths of the sea._

Poe snorts. Well, that is true enough - Poe has made the personal acquaintance at one time or another of several of the other captains of the First Order fleet, and usually they ended the parley with oaths that they would slay him the next time they saw him.

_Though you have no reason to trust in me, nevertheless I give you my oath that I will do you no avoidable harm, and that I wish nothing more devoutly than to bring my skills and knowledge to Admiral Organa and place myself under her service; and towards that end I mean, if it is at all possible, to render you and your companions free of this current captivity, and to join you in flight; and this is the matter which I would discuss with you. Only be patient until we come to a place of safety, where there shall be fewer ears turned always towards any hint that I contemplate such treachery as - it must be allowed - I do indeed intend. Wind and current willing, that time will come apace._

_-Finn_

Poe sits back in the chair and blinks at the astonishing missive. Then, shaking himself, he shreds the paper carefully into pieces no larger than his smallest fingernail, and feeds them a bit at a time into the lantern’s flame, which burns them obligingly to ash.

This might, still, be some sort of dreadful trick, but Poe rather thinks not. A pirate with a captive already in his hands is not likely to go to such great trouble in order to hoodwink that captive into - what? Bringing the pirate to Admiral Organa, whose keen eyes he would never be able to fool?

Then if not a trick, the letter is likely true - and if true, well - Poe feels hope rising again within his chest and sits down hard upon the edge of the bed, clasping the coverlet tightly in one hand. If it is true, he might yet live to see freedom again - might see the poor innocents captured alongside him set free, unharmed - might bring the greatest intelligence coup of this whole dreadful war to Admiral Organa’s very hands.

 _Only be patient,_ Captain Finnaeus wrote. Patience is not Poe’s _strongest_ trait, but for a hope so strong and miraculous as this one, he rather thinks he can manage it. For a few days, at least.

*

The hours until Captain Finnaeus returns are very long. Poe finds a book, wrapped in oilcloth in the bottom drawer of the desk, and retreats to the bed to read it; and when the printed page can no longer hold his attention, he practices lunges and footwork in the scant space between the bed and the door.

Out on the deck, he can hear the pirates calling back and forth as they swab the deck and tidy away the lines; now and again Captain Finnaeus’ unmistakable tones cut through the clamor, voice sure and stern as he gives commands. It certainly does not _sound_ like a crew on the very edge of mutiny - and Poe has heard that sound before, actually, years ago before he joined Admiral Organa’s service - but then, so long as Captain Finnaeus is obeying the orders of his First Order masters, Poe supposed, there would be no reason for his crew to rebel against his authority.

When he has exercised as much as he can in the narrow confines of the cabin, he bathes again as best he can with what remained of the wash water and retreats again to the bed. The book is not, as he had expected when he unwrapped it, some work of nautical import, but an explanation of flower language, of all the unlikely things, with notes on the arranging of botanical displays and even a few chapters on the layout of formal gardens. Poe has never been more than middling clever with flowers - has learned no more of the complicated codes than he needed to put together a bouquet of hyacinths and saxifrage to ask his light-of-loves into his bed.

Apparently he should have been sending tansies to all the First Order captains, or possibly pots of basil.

And to Captain Finnaeus? Sea bindweed, definitely, for the utter confusion he has induced in Poe, possibly with cyclamen and dock leaves and black poplar. Assuming Poe could find any of those out here on the ocean, which of course he couldn’t, and also assuming he _wants_ to give flowers to the imposing pirate captain, which...he probably doesn’t.

Though surely there must be hidden depths to the captain, given this book, hidden away so carefully in his desk, and the letter which has so baffled Poe, so maybe Captain Finnaeus _would_ like to be given a bouquet, flowers spelling out a question Poe dared not ask aloud while the pirate crew might hear.

The cabin boy does not return with luncheon - well, presumably captives do not eat so well as crew, aboard a pirate ship - and it is growing dark enough that Poe has re-wrapped the book and stowed it carefully away again within the desk before the sound of boots approaching warns him of his captor’s return. Poe huddles down beneath the blankets once again, concealing his unmarked skin from any prying eyes, and watches with an expression of wide-eyed apprehension as Captain Finnaeus flings wide the door and strides within, glowering fit to scare a kraken, with his cabin boy scampering at his heels. The lad puts down a tray upon the desk and snatches up the one Poe had emptied so many hours earlier, then darts out again as swift as thought. The door slams closed again behind him.

Captain Finnaeus sits down at his desk as Poe unwinds himself from the heavy blankets, and as Poe finishes untangling himself, holds out a sort of sandwich of hardtack and salt beef. Poe takes it and eats eagerly, not caring that the hardtack has seen better days. Captain Finnaeus devours his own share, and drinks half the small beer in the generous mug before offering the rest to Poe.

Perhaps Poe should hesitate before sharing a drink with a pirate captain, but he takes it and drains it to the dregs without a second thought. Some other pirate, yes, he would have flinched - he would not have put it past Captain Ren, for instance, to have poisoned the beer - but not Captain Finnaeus.

Poe nearly drops the mug, startled, as he realizes abruptly that he has begun, against all sense and wisdom, to trust the pirate captain - to trust the man who holds Poe’s life within his grasp.

Yet - Poe’s instincts have never failed him before. And if they cry out that this ruthless pirate with his strange hidden depths and oddly gentle hands is trustworthy - well -

Poe hands Captain Finnaeus back his mug, warring with himself. It makes no _sense_ to trust a pirate, a First Order lackey and a villain well-attested. And yet - and yet -

It makes no _sense_.

*

The clatter of boots upon the deck is all the warning they receive, and while Poe is still trying to decipher his own baffling heart’s desire to trust, the pirate captain moves like lightning, knocking Poe back onto the bed. Poe gasps and flails, pinned down beneath the pirate’s greater weight, and then the pirate’s mouth takes his in a kiss that steals the breath from Poe’s lungs and all the rational thought from his gobsmacked mind. Dimly, he is aware that the door has opened without so much as a knock, and someone enters, boots thumping upon the deck; Captain Finnaeus tears his mouth from Poe’s and turns to snarl at the interloper.

“You dare interrupt me, bosun?”

The pirate - the bosun, Poe realizes vaguely, mind still reeling from the kiss - actually jumps back a bit. “Just - come for the tray, sir,” he stammers, and grabs at it, knocking the empty mug over before he fumbles the tray into his arms and goes darting out the door again. Captain Finnaeus rises with a growl of frustration and strides to the open doorway, glowering out into the darkness for a long moment before he slams the door to and slaps the lock into place, then whirls.

“Now then, my pretty,” he says, and Poe shivers at the predatory tone - but though the pirate stalks back across the room to stand beside the bed, he makes no move to seize Poe, but slaps the bedpost resoundingly. Poe jumps, and recognizes his cue.

He whimpers, as loud and despairingly as he can manage, and then, at the pirate captain’s approving smile, begins to beg in hopeless, helpless tones for mercy, until at last another _crack_ of the pirate’s hand against the bedpost makes him fall to silence once again.

Captain Finnaeus sits down beside him on the bed, leaving a hand’s width of empty space between them, and offers Poe a tiny smile full of wry amusement. “I do apologize,” he murmurs, so quietly that Poe sits up and leans closer to hear him better. “I could think of no other way to - distract the bosun.”

“It worked,” Poe says just as quietly, offering the pirate a tentative smile of his own. “And as it is my own hide we are saving, I thank you.”

Captain Finnaeus’ lips quirk a little further. “Tomorrow,” he says, “we will reach Stopover, and my men will go ashore to amuse themselves. We will speak further then.” He stands. “Sleep if you can.”

Impulsively, Poe leans forward to put a hand on the pirate’s brawny arm. “The bed is large enough for two,” he says quietly, when Captain Finnaeus pauses and looks down at him curiously. “And that chair cannot be comfortable.”

There is a long pause, and then the pirate captain nods. “It is not,” he agrees. “If you are certain?”

“If you wished to do me harm, I would be sore wounded already,” Poe points out. “I do not think sharing a bed will be any more dangerous than being captured in the first place.”

“Only so dangerous as that,” Captain Finnaeus replies, with a tiny huff of laughter. “Very well - do you take the bulkhead side, then. And your virtue will be safe from me.”

Poe cannot quite help grinning. “What there is left of it,” he says, with some amusement. “And I must warn you, sir, that while I sleep I have much in common with the deep-sea creature known as the octopus - I shall do my best to keep to my own side, but I make no promises.”

“You are warmer than an octopus, at least,” Captain Finnaeus says, a proper smile on his lips at last, and Poe, gazing up at his captor - or is he a rescuer in truth? - is struck suddenly and uncomfortably by the realization that Captain Finnaeus is a truly remarkably attractive man.

The pirate captain leaves Poe there, apparently utterly ignorant of Poe’s awkward revelation, and Poe watches, unable to tear his eyes away, as he tugs his shirt off and takes up the pitcher of washing water. The captain’s shoulders are broad and well-muscled, his back a thing of beauty marred not at all by the scars adorning it here and there; they serve only to emphasize the strength and grace with which the pirate moves.

Poe licks his lips half-consciously, then realizes what he has done and turns abruptly to burrow down into the blankets, closing his eyes tightly. Of all the foolish things he has done in his life - and there have been many, not for nothing is he considered one of the most reckless sailors in Admiral Organa’s fleet - falling for a pirate captain would be the most foolish by _far_.

To be sure, Captain Finnaeus is - is a very beautiful man, is known for being tactically brilliant, is deadly with a sword, and is apparently desirous of leaving the service of his foul masters, in aid of which he has been nothing but kind to Poe; and in any other man such a combination of wit and physical beauty and immense kindness would be so very appealing to Poe as to be nearly intoxicating - Poe shakes his head vigorously and then buries it under a pillow, muffling a whimper.

He is so lost in thought he only barely feels the pirate captain lying down upon the bed beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hyacinth = games, play 
> 
> Saxifrage = affection
> 
> Tansy = I declare war on you
> 
> Basil = hatred
> 
> Sea bindweed = uncertainty
> 
> Cyclamen = timid hope
> 
> Dock = patience
> 
> Black poplar = courage


	3. Chapter 3

Poe wakes in the morning to find that, despite his best intentions, he has in fact rolled over in the night and draped himself, most octopus-like, over the pirate captain, who is - to Poe’s increasingly intense dismay - already awake, and lying still with an expression of great patience upon his handsome face. Poe untangles himself hastily, sitting up against the bulkhead and scrubbing a hand over his face and trying to ignore the memory of the warm strength of the captain’s chest beneath his arm.

“I do apologize, sir, for my importunities,” he says quietly, as Captain Finnaeus sits up.

The pirate chuckles. “I think,” he replies, just as softly, “that you had better call me Finn - seeing as we’ve spent the night together and all.”

Poe cannot help an answering chuckle. “Then I am Poe,” he says, holding out a hand, and Finn clasps it firmly. His hand is strong and very warm.

Poe is honestly not sure what he would have says next - quite possibly something entirely foolish, like, _Kiss me again_ \- but thankfully the cabin boy chooses that moment to tap tentatively on the locked door. “Sir?” he calls, shrill and nervous, and Finn rises at once. Poe huddles down in the bed and does his best to look downtrodden and terrified as Finn flings open the door and takes the tray from the wide-eyed cabin boy with a nod, then slams the door shut again.

“Come and eat,” Finn offers, low-voiced, and Poe rises from the bed to join him at the desk. Hardtack and hard cheese and small beer and a pair of elderly apples - apparently Finn eats no better than his crew.

Poe eats quickly - years at sea have taught him that the possibility of a crisis is always there, and it is wisest to finish eating before the disaster strikes - and then says, softly, “Have you aught I could do, while I am alone here today? I fear me I am unaccustomed to long idleness, and find it wearing.”

Finn chuckles softly. “Very little, I am afraid,” he replies, “unless - have you any skill in navigation?”

“A great deal,” Poe says, beaming. “I am one of the finest navigators in Admiral Organa’s fleet - perhaps one of the finest on the sea.”

Finn’s eyes go wide and very bright. “Well, then,” he says, and bends to unlock the single locked drawer of his desk, withdrawing a handful of carefully-wrapped charts. “I am no sort of navigator myself - it is not encouraged, you see - and I cannot make heads nor tails of some of the markings on these, though my steersman follows them as easily as breathing. If you can comprehend them, it will be most valuable - to myself and to Admiral Organa.”

Poe unrolls the top chart eagerly, to find that it is - wonder of wonders - a map of the sandbars and shoals leading to the Bay of Stelocid, the rumored headquarters of the First Order. No Resistance ship has ever been able to get close to the Bay - every captain who has tried has run his ship aground, and most of them never made it home to tell the tale. But with this -

“This is worth a king’s ransom,” Poe breathes.

Finn chuckles softly. “Shall I leave you two alone?” he asks lightly, and Poe glances up into fathomless dark eyes and catches his breath, biting his lip hard to keep any number of foolish responses behind his teeth.

“Probably wise,” he says at last, when he thinks he can trust his tongue. “Your crew might grow curious of the delay.”

Finn shakes his head. “They will think I am distracted by my beautiful captive,” he says calmly. “But nevertheless I should go. I will return tonight - my crew will be ashore, and we may speak more freely then.” He pauses, looking at Poe, and adds, “You may use my spare shirt, if you like.”

Poe smiles. “Thank you! I will entertain myself with maps until your return,” he promises, and retreats to the bed with the handful of charts, well out of the line of sight of the doorway. Finn rummages in the chest at the foot of the bed for a moment, emerging with two clean shirts, one of which he tosses to Poe, then pulls the other on, plucks his hat off the hook, and strides out the door, slamming it behind him.

Poe takes a deep breath and turned his attention to the charts. Falling for a pirate captain would be a bad, _bad_ idea. Even if his shirt is lovely and soft and just a little bit too large, falling over Poe’s hands distractingly, and smells faintly of Finn’s soap and even more faintly of the pirate himself.

*

The commotion as the ship reaches Stopover rouses Poe from his deep contemplation of the maps - any one of which would have been a priceless treasure, and the stack of which represents more useful intelligence about the First Order than Poe has ever seen.

“I tell you they are for Lord Snoke to dispose of!” Finn’s voice roars from the deck outside the cabin, and Poe fumbles the map in his hand, dropping it to roll up on the floor, and stares wide-eyed at the cabin door. “The dog who lays a hand upon them dies that moment! I will not have you curs destroy the prizes I have won!”

He must be talking about the captives, Poe realizes. The ones in the brig - the ones Poe had tried to shield. Which means - which means they are _still_ unharmed, or as unharmed as a prisoner in a pirate brig could be.

“ _You’ve_ got one, Captain,” someone whines.

“Aye, a personal friend of that fiend Organa, whom I shall give over to Lord Snoke as broken and pliant as a dockside whore,” Finn snarls back. If Poe didn’t know better, he would have believed the man utterly. “ _He_ is a source of information - and of leverage. _They_ are prizes, and I will not have them ruined. Do you _understand_?”

“Aye, Captain,” comes the rumbled reply from many throats.

“You have ale and whiskey and a day’s grace ashore,” Finn continues. “Get you gone. Bosun, I trust that you will keep them in line.”

“Aye, Captain,” chorus the crew again, and then there comes the unmistakable bustle of a ship anchoring, the creaking as the boats are loared and the crew piles into them, accompanied with the sort of casually excessive swearing that gives sailors such a bad reputation. And then the splashing of the oars as the boats are rowed away - and, slowly, the ship falls silent.

Poe rolls the maps up carefully and puts them aside, then stands and begins to pace, trying to work away the sudden jitters. He has been alone with the pirate captain - with _Finn_ \- before; why does this feel so different, with the ship empty around them?

But when Finn pushes open the door and steps into the cabin, he is not alone; his cabin boy stands behind him, with a small smile on his face. He is not so young as Poe had thought, Poe realizes now; he is nearly as tall as his captain, though far paler, with his long brown hair pulled tight in a sailor’s queue and a wiry strength to his arms that belies his seeming youth. He closes the door gently behind him, and leans back against it comfortably. Finn takes the desk chair, and Poe sits gingerly on the bed, deeply confused.

“This is Rey, my great good friend and confidant,” Finn says, smiling. “She has been acting as my cabin boy for - it must be three years now, I think.”

“ _She_?” Poe asks incredulously, and takes a closer look at the young - young woman, yes, though as slender and wiry as any hard-working lad. “I - my apologies, miss.”

“None needed,” Rey replies calmly. “I am glad my disguise is so effective.”

“She is my eyes and ears and my right hand,” Finn says proudly. “She has been in charge of feeding the prisoners - I dared not allow any of my men to do so - and moreover she has been gathering information for me, these many months, on which of my men are truly loyal to the First Order and all its works, and which may be persuaded to follow me even into the arms of the Resistance. Provided of course we are not all clapped in irons immediately,” he added thoughtfully.

“You...do wish to leave the First Order, then,” Poe says carefully.

“Most devoutly,” Finn replies, and Poe can read the truth of it in the pirate’s dark eyes. “I have wished to do so since I was old enough to know what the First Order _was_. I was press-ganged as a child, and raised upon a ship; and when I was first given a sword I excelled, and so they trained me as an officer. But I have never loved the First Order, nor piracy, and as my masters know this they have kept a close eye upon me. I am _valuable,_ ” he spits the word furiously, “and so where my unskilled comrades may slip away on Takodana or Jakku or half a dozen neutral ports, and never be pursued, _I_ may not. I have tried, and - it is not an experience I care to have again.”

“Ah,” Poe says. There is a story there, and one he suspects he does not want to know; doubtless it has such pain in it as would render the most heartless listener appalled.

Finn grimaces. “I have been kept from learning that which would most assist my escape,” he says grimly. “I say to my steersman, ‘go hence,’ and he does; I order my crew ‘raid here,’ and they raid. But did I order my steersman to a place of safety, he would not obey; and did I slay him, I could not steer the ship myself, for I cannot read the blasted _charts_. I am ever dependant on the whims of my officers, and _they_ are First Order lackeys to a man.”

“I can navigate by the stars,” Rey adds, “but I’ve never been to the places Finn wants to go. So that’s...less useful.”

“I see,” Poe says slowly. “Well. I _am_ a good navigator, as I told Finn earlier, and I know where we need to go, as well. But you’ll have to get me to the wheel, and currently I’m a little - um - unarmed.”

“You have my penknife,” Finn says, voice warm with amusement. Poe chuckles.

“Not _usefully_ armed,” he clarifies. Finn shrugs.

“It’s very good for sharpening quills,” he points out, grinning, and then draws a long dagger from his belt and holds it out to Poe. “But this will probably be better for fighting.”

Poe takes the dagger and weighs it carefully in his hand. It is a lovely thing, perfectly balanced and ruthlessly unadorned, made for killing and nothing else. “This will do marvelously,” he says, looking up to smile at Finn. “Have you a sheath for it?”

Finn nods and unhooks the sheath from his belt, passing it over, and Poe tucks the dagger carefully away. “So. We need to take control of the ship. How many crewmen will we have at our sides?”

Rey hums thoughtfully. “Less than half,” she says after a moment. “There are many who enjoy the life of a reaver, and will not wish to take more civilized employment; and there are many who are loyal to the First Order. A hundred, perhaps?”

“A hundred against twice that many, and the officers besides,” Finn says grimly.

“What of the captives?” Poe asks. “There are many, are there not?”

“Fifty or so, all young and strong,” Rey confirms, nodding. “And what I have heard when I brought their food suggests that they _would_ fight, had they but means. They speak of _you_ , often, Poe Dameron.”

“Of me?” Poe asks, startled.

“Of the man who tried to shield them, and is now plaything of a brutal pirate captain for his pains,” Rey says, nodding.

Finn chuckles softly. “Aye, and I have been brutal indeed,” he agrees wryly. Poe looks down at his borrowed shirt and joins the laughter.

“Terribly brutal,” he agrees. “Why, I shall be - how did you put it? - ‘as broken and pliant as a dockside whore’ in very little time at all.” He glances over at the dress, heaped against a bulkhead out of the way, and a plan comes into his mind all at once, full-formed.

“Rey, tell me, can you bring the prisoners weapons, and instruct them privily of any plans we might concoct?” he asks thoughtfully.

“I can,” Rey agrees, eyes narrowing at his tone. “Especially tonight, when all the crew carouses ashore. Though it will be daggers, not swords - they could not easily conceal anything too large.”

Poe nods thoughtfully. “And how long, by your estimation, is the journey from this islet to the Bay of Stelocid and our dreadful fates?”

“A week with fair winds,” Finn says instantly. “I have sailed the route often enough to know that much, at least.”

“A week,” Poe says, and hums. “Well. Here, then, is my plan…”


	4. Chapter 4

He shares the bed with Finn again that night, because it seems most ungentlemanly of him to deprive the man of his own soft bed; but as soon as Finn lies down beside him, Poe realizes his mistake. Because sharing the bed with a pirate captain, that is one thing; but sharing the bed with a man as clever, brave, and beautiful as Finn, _knowing_ that Finn is - is safe, is not in fact an enemy -

Poe buries his head under the pillow again, and tries desperately not to think about that single, searing kiss. Finn was merely attempting to distract the bosun, he reminds himself. He is not _actually_ interested in kissing Poe. The entire dreadful situation - from the moment Finn ordered that Poe be brought to his cabin - has been a sham. In all likelihood, Finn and Rey are lovers, and concealing it from anyone and everyone to protect each other.

“Are you well?” Finn asks softly, and lays one warm, broad hand on Poe’s shoulder. Poe shivers.

“I am quite well,” he replies as evenly as he can, muffled by the pillow.

“If you are not comfortable, I can easily sleep elsewhere,” Finn says carefully, and Poe tugs the pillow from his head and rolls over quickly.

“I would not put you from your bed again,” he says. Finn blinks at him, dark eyes unreadable in the dim light of the lantern burning low.

“It is little hardship - I have slept in far worse places ere now,” he replies. “If it discomforts you that I am here, only say as much, and I shall leave you be.”

“It is - it is not that it discomforts me,” Poe says hastily. “Or it is not _you_ who discomforts me, but my own foolish mind, which will not sleep.”

“Ah?” Finn asks. “Our plan is sound - I have no doubt but that you will play your part to perfection. If that is what frets you, cast it from your mind.”

Poe chuckles softly. “No, that is not what frets me. I have fought before, and know full well that fretting over battles yet to come aids nothing.”

“Then what plagues your clever mind?” Finn asks, sounding genuinely concerned. Poe scrubs a hand across his face.

“It is nothing,” he assures Finn. “I pray you do not fret yourself over my foolish maundering.”

“I would not have you discomforted,” Finn says dubiously. “If there is aught I can do to aid you, tell me so. We are allies now, are we not?”

“Allies,” Poe agrees, and sighs. “Truly, it is nothing. Sleep; tomorrow we must play our parts.”

“Very well,” Finn says dubiously, and settles himself more comfortably upon the bed. Poe closes his eyes tightly and tries to remember the trick he had once had, as a youth, of falling into sleep at any available moment, as easily as breathing.

Admittedly, in those innocent years, Poe was rarely trying to keep from thinking about kissing the beautiful man sharing his bed. Usually because back _then_ , the beautiful man sharing Poe’s bed was one of his _lovers_ , and Poe didn’t have to _think_ about kissing him, he could just _do_ it. Finn is not his lover. Finn is not even, quite, his friend. Poe needed to stop thinking about him and _sleep_.

He does not notice the moment his whirling thoughts turn into dreams.

*

Poe wakes up draped across Finn’s chest again, one leg wound tightly around Finn’s hips, and his head nestled into the curve of Finn’s neck. Very carefully, hoping that Finn is not yet awake, he unwinds himself from his ally, and then dares to look up - and meets Finn’s eyes, warm with amusement.

“Ah,” Poe says, and sighs. “I do apologize for my octopus-like ways.”

“There is no apology needed,” Finn says softly. “You are - a very pleasant bedmate.”

Poe blinks. “I am?”

“You are - very warm, and it is long and long since I have held anyone in my arms,” Finn admits quietly. “I know it discomforts you, and for that I am sorry, but for myself I cannot regret it.”

“Ah,” Poe says, and then, before he can quite remind himself how foolish an idea it is, rolls back again to drape himself over his ally, curling close. Finn makes a soft, startled noise and then, almost tentatively, wraps an arm around Poe’s back, hand warm on Poe’s shoulder.

“My thanks,” Finn says, very quietly, after a while.

“My pleasure,” Poe replies, just as softly. And then throws caution to the winds, and adds, “It is the kiss, which so discomforted me last night. Or - not the kiss itself.”

Finn makes a quiet sound of confusion. “The kiss, and not the kiss?”

Poe pushes himself up on one elbow, just far enough that he could see Finn’s face. “The kiss, and wanting more of it, though it is only a deception.”

Finn blinks in startlement. “More?” he asks, incredulous. “But - you would want that? With me, who took you captive?”

“With you who wish so ardently to free me,” Poe corrects him. “Do not think I do not know what my fate would have been with _any_ other pirate of the First Order. Death would have been a kindness. Yet I am hale and well, and there is a weapon ready to my hand and my freedom waiting for me - and my captor is no captor at all, but an ally and, I hope, a friend. And,” Poe adds, lips quirking into a smile, “very beautiful.”

“Not half so beautiful as his captive,” Finn murmurs, and Poe blinks in surprise. It is not that he does not know he is an attractive man - enough lovers have told him so, in years gone by - but that Finn has _noticed_. And then Finn reaches up with his free hand to trace his fingers across Poe’s cheek, and Poe lets out the breath he had not realized he is holding.

“May I?” Finn whispers, and Poe says, “ _Please._ ”

The kiss is long and slow and gentle, and Poe - Poe hasn’t been kissed in far too long, clearly, because he melts against Finn’s broad chest, all the strength gone from his arms, and lets Finn take his own sweet time.

*

Poe spends the day studying the navigation charts and practicing his footwork in the narrow confines of the cabin. Finn is out on the deck somewhere, chivvying his crew into working off their hangovers, and Poe tries - really he does - not to let himself be distracted by memories of Finn’s chest warm beneath his hand and Finn’s lips soft and gentle on his, the soft contented sounds Finn made in the back of his throat. There is a mutiny to plan - though perhaps that is the wrong word, if the captain is leading it - and Poe _ought_ to be studying his part in it, but -

But the way Finn _looked_ , when they parted at last, eyes half-lidded and fathomless and warm, lips kiss-swollen and quirked into a smile as sweet as honey.

By the time Finn returns, late in the day, with a tray of dinner in his hands, Poe has paced himself half-mad in the tiny confines of the cabin, has read over the charts until he knows them better than his own hands, has tried a thousand times to push the image of his captor spread beneath him, lazy and pleased and beautiful, out of his mind. Finn puts the tray upon the desk and turns, and Poe glances once at the bolted door and steps forward into Finn’s arms.

Finn startles, as though he did not expect Poe to be so forward, and Poe pauses just long enough to see the startlement turn to bright joy before he seals their mouths together. Finn’s hands come up to grasp Poe’s arms, as iron-strong and gentle as they were the day Poe learned Finn would not do him harm, and Poe lets them take his weight, lets himself sag against Finn just a little.

Finn moans, a tiny soft sound in the back of his throat. “You are temptation incarnate,” he murmurs as their lips part. “To see you lying there in my bed, shirtless and beautiful - and now wearing _my_ shirt, my dagger at your side -”

Poe shivers deliciously. “You looked?” he asks, just as quietly. “You liked what you saw?”

Finn curls a hand around the back of Poe’s neck and pulls him in for a deep, hungry kiss. “I liked it very much,” he murmurs in Poe’s ear, long moments later.

“Oh,” Poe says, a little shakily. “I - I did, too. Seeing you shirtless.”

Finn blinks in apparent surprise.

Someone bangs on the door.

Poe jumps a foot, whirling to stare at the door for a moment, then has a sudden hopefully-clever thought, and drops to his knees beside the desk, turning so all someone looking in the doorway will see is his back and his bowed head. Finn makes a soft, approving noise and strides across the cabin to open the door.

“ _What?_ ” Finn snaps.

“Crow’s nest says there’s a storm coming, Captain.”

Finn sighs, grabs his hat, and steps out. “Call out the men and furl sail. You, my pretty,” he adds over his shoulder to Poe, “you stay _right_ where you are.”

“Yes, sir,” Poe says, trying hard to sound terrified and obedient. The door slams shut behind Finn, and Poe stretches a little, shifts until he’s comfortable, and tries to figure out what’s going on out on the deck by the sounds that filter in through the closed door and the shuttered window. There’s a lot of shouting, which is only to be expected, and the flapping thunder of sails being furled, the creaking of the ship as the first gusts of storm-wind hit. Boots and bare feet thumping on the deck, vituperative swearing. The ship heels, and Poe braces himself against the bolted-down desk instinctively and hopes the other prisoners in the brig aren’t too uncomfortable. This is going to be a spectacular storm, if Poe’s well-honed instincts are correct, and with any luck it will blow them off course a bit.

It’s nearly an hour, by Poe’s best guess, before the sound of boots approaching the door heralds Finn’s return. Poe carefully takes up his best imitation of the posture of a broken, terrified captive, and waits impatiently for the door to open.

But when it does, it is not Finn who enters.

“Huh,” says a voice Poe recognizes - the voice of the pirate who tossed the dress at him, days ago, coarse and cruel and gloating. “Guess you _are_ jus’ as broken as the Captain says.”

Poe holds still, trying not to tremble with fear. Finn will be back soon, and even if he isn’t, Poe has the dagger on his belt, beneath Finn’s loose shirt, and while explaining a dead pirate might be an interesting trick it wouldn’t be completely unmanageable.

“Captain sent me,” the pirate continues, gloating now. “Captain says I get a reward for catchin’ ya. Get to have yer pretty mouth. Captain’s orders.”

Poe knows he’s lying, of course. Finn would not do such a thing. Which means this must be one of the pirates who truly enjoys being part of the First Order, one of the ones they’re going to have to kill during the mutiny anyway. So if Poe kills the man - it will be easy enough, turn about on his knees like he’s going to obey and bring the dagger up to open the big vein in the thigh, slit his throat when he collapses - that will be one fewer enemy to deal with later.

He’s in the process of turning around, in fact, when Finn steps through the door with a wordless roar of anger, and Poe glances up and can’t help staring. He knew Finn was strong - a pirate captain must be, after all, and Poe has slept two nights on that broad chest, spent far too little time clasped in those brawny arms - but Finn picks the pirate up like a ragdoll and _tosses_ him out onto the deck. There’s a sort of awful _snap_ as the pirate lands, and Poe, peering tentatively out through the doorway as Finn stalks towards their enemy, sees that the pirate has a very badly broken arm.

“I told you all that he was _mine_ to break,” Finn roars, and lifts the pirate up again, shaking him like a terrier shakes a rat. The pirate screams, the shrill sound nearly lost in the howl of the building storm. And then Finn turns to the little crowd of other pirates watching the unfolding drama, and snaps, “Tie him to the mast. If he survives the storm he can beg me for his miserable _life_.”

“...Aye, Captain,” says the bosun warily, and they take the whimpering pirate from his grip and lash him tightly to the mast, as Finn looks on with his arms folded across his chest and a glower on his face fiercer than the storm above. Finn glares his crew belowdecks when they’re done, and only when they have all fled the driving rain does he turn and stride back into his cabin, shutting and locking the door firmly behind him.

And then the scowl slides from his face to be replaced with an expression of great concern, and he slides to his knees in front of Poe and reaches out, hesitating before his hands make contact. “Did he - are you -”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Poe says, leaning forward into Finn’s welcome embrace. “He didn’t lay a hand on me. Thanks to you. Although I was going to kill him if you hadn’t arrived when you did.”

Finn relaxes visibly. “Thank goodness,” he sighs. “Now - shall we eat? And then, I think, our conversation was interrupted.”

Poe laughs, not caring how loud it is - the storm outside will cover any noise they make, tonight.

*

They end up curled in the bed together after dinner, both shirtless, Finn’s skin warm and smooth beneath Poe’s stroking hand, Finn’s hand a heavy comfort on Poe’s shoulder. The air is cool, and Poe burrows closer to Finn, who puts out heat like a banked hearth. Poe traces a finger gently over a scar on Finn’s shoulder, mark of some old injury. “What gave you this?” he asks quietly, as the storm howls outside.

“A fire iron,” Finn replies, and Poe yanks his hand back in horror. Finn grimaces. “It was long ago, and has long since ceased to ache,” he assures Poe.

Poe blinks at him for a long, horrified moment, then leans down to press his lips to the scar. “I am glad it does not pain you,” he says.

Finn gives Poe a long, unreadable look and then pulls him down into a proper kiss, wet and sweet and hungry by turns. Poe’s head is reeling a little by the time they pull apart.

“Normally,” he says, once he’s gotten his wits together a little, “when I find someone as lovely and brave and clever as you are, by this point in the acquaintance I have already asked them to my bed. As this is _your_ bed, however, and I am already in it…”

Finn laughs. “I have never in my life met someone so brave and clever and lovely as you,” he tells Poe, “save only Rey, and she is the sister of my heart. You are welcome in my bed, Poe Dameron - to sleep, or otherwise.”

“And if I say I am not yet weary?” Poe asks, grinning.

Finn...hesitates. Poe blinks, pulling away a little in confusion. “I have never met such a man as you before,” Finn says finally, sounding almost - apologetic? “And so I have never yet invited any man to my bed, save you,” Finn explains. “If you desire a - a lover of great skill -”

“I desire _you_ ,” Poe says firmly. “Skilled or unskilled - though I cannot but think that so clever a man as you will _gain_ skill very swiftly, if you desire to learn.” He shrugs. “It is not _so_ different from taking a woman to your bed. The anatomy is different, but -”

“I must confess I have not done that either,” Finn says, rather sheepishly.

Poe’s eyebrows go up in surprise. “No? I would have thought the ladies on Takodana would have been more than happy to spend a few hours in your company.”

“They give very good backrubs,” Finn says, shrugging.

“...I see,” Poe says thoughtfully. “Well. Do you _want_ to - share the bed in the more euphemistic sense?”

Finn chuckles, a low rich sound that makes Poe shiver, and before Poe can quite catch his breath, rolls them both over. Poe lands flat on his back, staring up into Finn’s lovely eyes, gasping in astonishment and lust. “I _want_ ,” Finn says softly, “to see you scream in ecstasy beneath my hands. I want to taste you everywhere. I want to _have_ you, like the pirate I am, until no other man will ever suffice you. I want to kiss my name from your lips.”

Poe whimpers, gripping Finn’s arms so tightly his fingers leave little pale marks. “Dear and holy gods,” he says faintly.

Finn smiles. “I simply do not know how.”

“Well,” Poe says, a little hoarsely, “that was a damn good start.” He takes a deep breath and pries his fingers from Finn’s arms. “We could - take our pants off,” he suggests. “And - have you any oil?”

“Pants,” Finn agrees, rolling to his feet and shucking his trousers swiftly, as Poe wriggles out of his own and tosses them off the bed. “Oil,” he adds, and bends to rummage in the chest at the foot of the bed, emerging with a little flask and dropping it beside the pillow. And then he pauses, looking down at Poe with dark and hungry eyes.

*

Poe is not _surprised_ , per se, that Finn is an astonishingly attractive man, standing there proudly nude beside the bed, his dark skin gleaming in the lamplight. Rendered utterly speechless by Finn’s beauty, yes; suddenly so ravenously desperate to touch Finn that it is very nearly painful to hold back, certainly; but not surprised.

Finn stares down at Poe, eyes fathomless and dark as the night sky. “The way you look at me,” he murmurs, and reaches out to rest a gentle hand on Poe’s cheek. Poe turns his head and licks Finn’s thumb, draws the digit into his mouth and bites, carefully, at the pad. Finn gasps and shivers, and does not pull his hand away for long, delightful moments.

“Come here,” Poe says at last, and Finn does, climbing into the bed and right onto Poe, pinning him to the pillows and kissing him hungrily.

“Tell me,” he says at last, breath warm against Poe’s ear. “Tell me what pleases you.”

“This,” Poe says hoarsely, and Finn chuckles. “But also - you have very fine instincts - you mentioned a desire to taste -”

“Everywhere,” Finn agrees, and bites very gently at the curve of Poe’s neck. Poe gasps and turns his head aside to give Finn better access.

“You might -” he says, and Finn raises his head, which is _entirely_ not what Poe intended. “You might - bite a little harder; I should not object.”

“Not object?” Finn asks, and lowers his head to Poe’s shoulder. Poe shudders at the slow, firm pressure of his lover’s teeth, the welcome ache of it. “Ah,” Finn says softly. “I see.” And bites again.

Poe whimpers. “I see I have given entirely too potent a weapon into your hands,” he says faintly. Finn chuckles, soft and warm.

“Shall I forget that you have told me, then, and leave no more marks upon your lovely skin?” he asks.

“No,” Poe says hoarsely. “I should - I should like to wear the marks you give me.”

Finn makes a soft, astonished sound and surges up to kiss Poe desperately. “You must not tempt me so,” he says, voice raw with hunger. “Pirate that I am, I shall want to keep you here, draped in pearls and wearing nothing but the marks I leave upon you, my treasure far more valuable than gold.”

“Almost I should like to be kept so, if you were my keeper,” Poe replies, and Finn kisses him silent, kisses the hoarse moans from his lips, kisses him until Poe is limp against the pillows, gasping for breath and almost shaking with desire.

And then Finn decides, so far as Poe can tell, to make good on his promise to taste Poe _everywhere_. Poe has had thorough lovers before, but never one so determined to find every sensitive place upon his skin and wake it to desperate hunger. If it were not for the storm, Poe would be frankly worried that his moans and cries of ecstasy would be audible to the entire crew; but as it is, the howl of the wind is loud enough that Poe does not bother to try to muffle himself. Finn seems to like it when Poe makes noise, in any case, which is reason enough of itself.

Poe is not sure there is room for any thought in his mind save only an incoherent desire for more, _please_ more, when Finn pauses, on his knees between Poe’s legs, and says softly, “Tell me how to please you.”

Poe claws on to his last shreds of coherent thought and fumbles for the flask of oil. “Oil your fingers,” he says, “and mine.”

Finn obeys with a frown of concentration that Poe can’t help finding strangely adorable, and Poe wriggles inelegantly until he can get his newly-slick hand down between his legs. “Thus,” he says hoarsely, as he slides a single finger into himself.

“I will not harm you?” Finn asks carefully, watching Poe’s hand with that adorable frown furrowing his lovely brow.

Poe shakes his head. “I assure you, I shall find nothing but pleasure in your touch,” he says, and draws his finger out, leaving himself sprawled helpless and waiting beneath Finn’s hungry gaze.

“Will you so?” Finn asks softly, and spreads one broad hand across Poe’s hip to hold him still, then slides a slick finger over Poe’s entrance. Poe whimpers. Finn’s smile broadens, and Poe does not bother to try to hold back the moan that rises from his throat as Finn’s finger sinks slowly into him.

“Another,” Poe gasps, some uncounted and delightful time later. “And - bend them - thus -” he crooks his own fingers, and Finn hums thoughtfully and imitates him. Poe clutches at the sheets and shouts at the sudden shock of pleasure. “A third,” he begs, and then dredges a sly smile from somewhere and adds, “and then you may take me like the pirate you are.”

Finn shivers, eyes wide and dark with lust, and the expression on his face is very nearly more arousing than the feel of three of his blunt fingers sinking deep into Poe’s body. But only very nearly - Poe spreads his legs wider and whimpers. “Enough - _please_ ,” he says desperately, and Finn swallows hard and nods, drawing his fingers away. And then Poe remembers something _else_ Finn said, and finds himself grinning. “ _Finn_ ,” he says, putting every bit of desperate lust he can into the word.

Finn swears helplessly and moves to brace himself above Poe, eyes gleaming in the lantern-light, and Poe reaches down between them to guide Finn into him, then lets his head fall back and moans in overwhelming pleasure. Finn kisses the sound from his lips, and Poe catches his breath with an effort and grins up into his lover’s eyes.

“Finn,” he says again, and Finn makes a soft, hungry sound deep in his throat and kisses Poe ravenously. Poe moans into the kiss and wraps his legs around Finn’s hips, and Finn begins to move, unpracticed and careful but so wonderful that Poe has to tear his mouth from the kiss and cry out, chanting Finn’s name to the uncaring storm. Finn makes an indescribable, desperate noise and lowers his head to lay biting kisses down the line of Poe’s throat, and Poe gives himself gladly over to mindless ecstasy, safe in his pirate’s arms.


	5. Chapter 5

Poe wakes up sore and slightly sticky, with bitemark bruises littering his skin, and very very happy. He is sprawled over Finn, of course, with one of Finn’s broad warm hands on his hip and the other stroking gently through his hair.

“Mmmmm,” Poe mumbles, snuggling closer. “You may stop doing that in about a thousand years.”

Finn chuckles, his chest shaking beneath Poe’s cheek. “So soon?”

Poe laughs and raises his head to claim Finn’s mouth in a slow, sweet kiss. “Well,” he says softly as their lips part, “I think you’ve definitely managed at least one of your aims from last night.”

“Which one?” Finn asks, smiling bright as the sunrise.

Poe wriggles a little, feeling the delicious ache of their evening’s entertainments. “I do not think any other man could _possibly_ suffice me, now that I have had the finest in the world.”

Finn’s smile could rival the sun for brightness. He’s opening his mouth to reply when someone taps on the cabin door. Finn rolls out of bed to answer, tugging his pants on as he goes; Poe flips a corner of the sheet over himself for modesty and doesn’t bother to try to hide, since the bitemarks and finger-shaped bruises scattered over his skin will do a perfectly good job of convincing anyone who looks in that Finn has spent the preceding night debauching him vigorously.

Which, admittedly, Finn has, though hopefully any observers will not realize just how enthusiastically Poe _cooperated_ with said debauchery.

The person at the door, though, is Rey, who steps in carrying a tray of food and takes one look at Poe before plunking the tray down on the desk and whirling to glare at Finn as he closes the door.

“You _didn’t_ ,” she hisses.

Poe blinks and sits up, pulling the blanket along with him to protect what remains of his modesty. “Here now,” he says, and Rey turns to glare at him. “He did nothing I did not ask him to do.”

Rey’s shoulders relax, and she turns back to Finn. “I do apologize,” she says quietly. Finn smiles and steps forward to touch her shoulder gently.

“On this ship of villains and vandals, I really cannot blame you for suspecting the worst,” he assures her.

Rey shakes her head. “I know you better than that,” she says, sounding annoyed with herself now. “I should not have doubted you. And - this will aid our plans, will it not?”

“It will,” Poe agrees. “When should I be ready?”

Rey takes a deep breath. “This afternoon,” she says softly. “The men will spend the day dealing with the storm’s aftermath, and they will all be weary by sunset. The prisoners are armed and waiting. You - you look the part.”

Poe glances down at his arms, dotted with finger-shaped bruises, and grins to himself. “Very well,” he says. “Then when I leave the cabin, that will be our cue.”

“Aye,” Finn says softly.

“Aye,” Rey echoes. “We will win our freedom, one and all.”

*

It’s nearly sunset, and Poe, who has been keeping a close ear on the goings-on outside the cabin, can tell from the stumbling steps of the crew that they are nearly dropping in their traces. Finn has been working them hard - deliberately, _cruelly_ hard - urging them on to ever greater efforts to render the ship properly seaworthy again.

Good. The more exhausted the pirates are, the less chance that they will be able to fight back against the prisoners effectively.

It’s maybe half an hour til sunset when Poe makes his move. He opens the cabin door and steps out onto the deck for the first time in far too many days, and as he crosses the deck towards Finn’s sturdy form he draws all eyes, just as the plan requires.

He’s wearing the dress, of course.

It took some little while to figure out how to lace up the bodice properly - it’s made for people with rather more generous chests than Poe has, after all - and another little while to figure out how to strap the dagger’s sheath to his thigh beneath the skirt while keeping the dagger’s hilt in easy reach (a task which required cutting a hole in the lovely green silk, which Poe does rather regret). Every second of that time was worth it, though, because the pirates of Finn’s crew simply cannot tear their eyes from Poe as he does his level best to sashay across the deck. He knows the bruises and bitemarks stand out well on his skin, livid blue and purple against golden tan, and he wears them proudly, as marks of honor. The crew may think that those marks show how Finn has broken him, but Poe knows better, and so does Finn, and that is all that _truly_ matters.

Finn is consulting with his officers as Poe draws near, and turns to look at Poe with a very well-feigned expression of surprise, then holds out a hand. “My lovely one,” he says, as Poe takes his hand and curls into his arms, looking up at him with what is not actually a _feigned_ gaze of adoration, “why have you left the cabin?”

“I _missed_ you,” Poe says, pouting as exaggeratedly as he can. “You said you’d have something _special_ for me tonight, and I’ve been waiting _all day_.”

He reaches down with the hand not clasped in Finn’s, the one shielded from prying eyes by their bodies pressed together - and if anyone notices the movement of his hand, they’re as like as not to think he’s doing something filthy with it, which is good camouflage - and wraps his hand around the dagger’s hilt. Finn glances up, very briefly, and then smiles down into Poe’s eyes and nods, just a little, so minutely that none of the officers notice at all.

One of the officers chuckles filthily - the bosun, Poe sees in a swift, covert glance. “When you said you’d break ‘im, Captain, you weren’t fooling!” he says, sounding vastly amused. “He ain’t so high-and-mighty now!”

“No,” Finn replies, tilting Poe’s chin up gently and smiling down at him. “He’s just perfect.”

Which is Poe’s cue to draw the knife from its sheath and whirl around, pushing away from Finn’s sturdy form, and cut the throat of the nearest pirate, who is, to Poe’s immense pleasure, the bosun. Behind Poe, Finn draws his sword and lunges - not for Poe, as the other pirates expect, but for the first mate, who dies before he has a chance to realize something has gone wrong.

Across the deck, Poe hears Rey’s high voice rise in a furious battle cry, echoed by dozens of others - the young men and women of D’Qar, freed from the brig and armed. The pirates boggle, turning this way and that in confusion, and Finn’s voice booms across the din: “Stand down, men, or die where you stand!”

Some of the pirates heed their captain’s voice. Others dither in confusion. But the officers are quicker on the uptake than their men, and have their weapons ready to their hands. Poe whirls to stand back-to-back with his lover, dagger gleaming in his hand, and the ship’s officers close in around them.

Finn is one of the finest warriors it has ever been Poe’s pleasure to encounter, and Poe himself is no slouch; and though they have never fought together before, Poe finds it easy to mirror Finn’s movements, staying at his back as they whirl and strike and block. The officers are good, yes - no pirate officer could be anything else - but Finn is better, and with Finn at his back to protect, Poe is better than he’s ever been before.

Poe has no time, in the whirl of blades and battle-cries, to look for Rey and the freed prisoners; but he can hear her furious ululations across the deck, and knows that she is fighting still. He is too lost in the adrenaline of battle to truly feel his wounds, but there is blood on his bare arm, a long cut not quite clearly dodged, and his skirts are tattered now, the silk bloodstained and torn.

But the officers fall, one by one, to Finn’s sword or Poe’s dagger, and at last Poe turns from a falling enemy to find there is no one opposing him, no leering face behind a gleaming sword. He and Finn turn, side by side, to see the deck awash in blood, and across the deck Rey stands at the head of her little army of freed prisoners, a long knife gleaming in each hand.

Not all the pirates are dead, Poe sees. Many are sitting, dazed or wounded, on the bloody deck, their hands upon their heads, staring in disbelief at the carnage around them. There are freed prisoners among the dead, Poe sees with a wince, but not as many as he might have feared - of the fifty or so captured, at least thirty are gathered around Rey, binding each other’s wounds with strips of cloth or glaring menacingly at the defeated pirates.

Rey crosses the deck with quick, mincing steps, and the still-living pirates lean out of her way as though terrified that even her shadow will slay them. She stops in front of Finn and smiles, fierce and proud.

“The ship is ours, Captain.”

“Well done,” Finn says approvingly. “I leave the prisoners in your capable hands, my friend - put them in the brig, if they are not among the ones you trust, or bind their wounds and set them to work again. Poe, are you well?”

Poe looks up from winding a strip of torn silk around his bloody arm, and lets Finn take over, binding the wound with gentle hands. “It’s but a scratch - I misdoubt me I shall even have a scar,” he assures Finn.

“Then take the wheel,” Finn says quietly, “and steer us all to freedom, my dear one.”

“Gladly,” Poe replies, and kisses Finn hard, tasting blood on both their lips, before trotting up the ladder to the stern deck and taking his position beside the wheel.

Which is when the steersman rises from where he has been lying in concealment and lunges for Poe, dagger in his hand and the light of utter fury in his eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

Poe’s dagger is back in its sheath, his hands empty; Finn is down on the deck below, staring up in horror.

So it is Rey who shouts in protective fury and flings the long knife in her right hand in one elegant, gleaming arc. It ends its path buried between the steersman’s shoulderblades, and he collapses forward across the wheel as Poe skips swiftly and inelegantly out of the way. He blinks down at the body for a long moment, then turns and bows to Rey, as deeply as he can.

“Well thrown, and my thanks for it,” he says.

“Well dodged,” Rey replies, and comes jogging up the ladder to retrieve her knife, rolling the steersman’s body off the wheel and heaving it unceremoniously over the stern railing. “Now. You were going to set our course?”

“I was,” Poe agrees, and takes his place beside the wheel again, looking up into the darkening sky to find the pole star. “I was indeed.”

And so he does.

*

He leaves the wheel under the care of one of the freed prisoners, a clever young woman named Jessika who swears she can keep a course as well as any steersman, around midnight, and goes down to the captain’s cabin wearily.

Finn is waiting for him, a basin of washing water near at hand. Poe closes the cabin door behind himself and steps forward into Finn’s open arms, tilts up his head to welcome the deep, hungry kiss which greets him.

“Let me care for you,” Finn murmurs as their lips part. “I nearly lost you today, my dear one - let me remind myself that you yet live.”

“Aye, Captain,” Poe says, cheekily, and grins when Finn chuckles.

Finn unwinds the torn silk around Poe’s arm and cleans the cut with gentle hands, then wraps it again in clean linen. And then he looks Poe up and down and raises an eyebrow. “How attached are you to this dress?”

“Not terribly,” Poe says, grinning wider. “It’s not really my style.”

There is a dagger in Finn’s hand before Poe can take another breath, and Poe holds very still as Finn cuts the laces of his bodice, the dagger’s edge sliding through the thin cords easily. The bodice falls away, and Finn flicks his dagger twice more, turning the loose sleeves into ragged scraps that drift lightly to the floor. Poe’s breath hisses in his throat, and he tilts his chin up, bare to the waist, proud of his bruises and his battle scars.

“You are so very lovely,” Finn says wonderingly, and puts up his dagger, then reaches out to nudge the skirt off of Poe’s hips. It falls to puddle about his feet, leaving him nude but for the dagger’s sheath upon his leg. Poe chuckles and reaches down to take the harness off, but Finn catches his hands, then falls gracefully to his knees and unstraps the dagger, setting it gently aside. And then he reaches over to the basin of washing water, lifting a cloth from the side of the basin and bending to lift Poe’s right foot and wipe it gently clean.

Poe rests a hand on Finn’s shoulder and gazes down at him in wonder. “I do not understand,” he says quietly, as Finn finishes with his right foot and moves carefully on to his left, “how such a cruel life as yours has been could make so marvelous a man.”

“Flatterer,” Finn says, tossing the filthy cloth into a little heap of laundry and fetching another from the basin, starting on Poe’s right calf and working upwards. The water is warm, and Finn’s hands are gentle; Poe braces himself on Finn’s shoulder and sighs with pleasure.

It takes four cloths and nearly half an hour before the blood and grime of the day has been wiped from Poe’s skin, and Poe is swaying by the end of it, delighted and weary in equal measure. Finn looks up at him from where he kneels at Poe’s feet. “Think you can stay upright a little longer?”

“I can try,” Poe says, and Finn leans forward and licks, wet and hungry, up the line of Poe’s cock. Poe sways and grabs at Finn’s shoulders. Finn chuckles.

“Well,” he says merrily, “ _that’s_ not so hard then.”

“I _beg_ your pardon,” Poe replies with as much dignity as he can muster.

“Not so _difficult_ ,” Finn corrects himself, and leans in again, hands spanning Poe’s hips to hold him up, and takes the head of Poe’s cock into his mouth. Poe whimpers.

Finn pulls away for a moment, licks his lips thoughtfully, and then nods to himself and leans back in, mouth open, and Poe claps a hand over his own mouth to hold in the desperate moan. Finn is clever, so _terrifyingly_ clever, and in far too little time he has found every sensitive spot that makes Poe shake and whimper, has figured out how to use his tongue in _far_ too delightful a way - Poe gasps something that might be a warning, clutching harder at Finn’s shoulders, and closes his eyes against the overwhelming wave of pleasure as he falls helplessly into ecstasy.

Finn rises and looks Poe over, then grins, bright and mischievous, and sweeps Poe up in his arms, carrying him easily to the bed. Poe sprawls out across the coverlet, laughing. “I am not actually a maiden, in _any_ sense of the word,” he points out merrily.

“No, you are a man,” Finn agrees, tugging his own shirt off and stepping out of his pants before sliding onto the bed beside Poe and gathering him into his arms. “I am very clear on that, I assure you - and on your lack of maidenhood, as well.”

Poe chuckles. “As well you should be, after last night,” he says, turning in Finn’s arms to claim his lips in a slow, lazy kiss. “Alas, I do not think I have the wherewithal for so...energetic an amusement tonight.” He slides a hand down Finn’s broad chest to curl his fingers around Finn’s lovely cock, and Finn gasps against his lips and shudders with pleasure. It takes gratifyingly little time before Finn is crying out, the sound muffled by Poe’s mouth, and anointing Poe’s hand and their stomachs with his seed.

“Energetic or no, that contents me well,” Finn says after a long moment, rolling away to grab a discarded shirt and wipe them both clean. “I am weary beyond words. But I could not bear to sleep without you safe in my arms.”

Poe curls closer to his lover contentedly. “Well, here I am; sleep, then, and know that every hour brings us closer to freedom at last.”

“Aye,” Finn says softly, and presses a kiss to Poe’s forehead, soft and loving. “Sleep, my dear one. We are safe at last.”

*

Poe wakes to a shout from the deck: “Sail ho!” Beside and beneath him, Finn wakes as well, going from sleepy sprawl to sudden alertness with well-trained speed.

“Come as you can,” Finn says, rolling out of bed and donning his clothing swiftly, not bothering to fasten the shirt. Poe follows him, shrugging into one of Finn’s spare shirts and buckling the belt on his pants even as he trots out onto the deck.

“What flag?” Finn calls up to Rey, who is perched in the ratlines halfway up the mast with a spyglass clapped to her eye.

“Can’t see it yet,” she yells back. “Wind’s all wrong. What flag do _we_ fly, Captain?”

Poe sees Finn hesitate. It’s a good question. If they fly the First Order’s many-rayed sun, any Resistance or Republic ship which sees them will close for battle. But… “What flags do we _have_?” he asks Finn as he draws level with him, straightening the dagger’s sheath on his belt.

“First Order and parley,” Finn says, and then calls up to Rey, “No flag as yet, until we see theirs!”

“Aye, Captain,” Rey shouts back, and Poe goes trotting up to the stern deck to take over at the wheel. Jessika surrenders it to him with a grateful smile.

If there is going to be a battle, it’s going to go...badly, Poe knows. The pirates working the deck alongside the freed prisoners are the ones Rey trusts at least a little, but they’re not armed, for safety’s sake, and arming them now is probably not a good idea. The ones in the brig, of course, are even _less_ safe to arm. And there are only thirty or so of the freed prisoners, none of whom are entirely unwounded. Even Rey has a bandage wound around one arm.

Poe keeps the ship on course, headed west for D’Qar and safety, and tries not to keep glancing over his shoulder at the other ship growing ever nearer. It seems like far too long before Rey cries out, triumphantly, “Rebel flag!”

“Put up the parley flag!” Finn calls at once, and two of the pirates hurry to do so. Poe glances over to see the other ship alter course slightly, clearly planning to come up beside Finn’s _Devastation_ at close range.

“Furl sail!” Finn calls, and Poe devotes himself to the wheel for long minutes while the ship slows ponderously to a crawl, and the Resistance ship draws ever nearer.

*

And then the Resistance ship is finally alongside, and half a dozen burly Pathfinders come leaping across to rope the ships together, then spread out as their commander follows them over - and Poe grabs Jessika and shoves her at the wheel before he goes leaping down the ladder and into the arms of the broad-shouldered officer.

“Papa,” he says quietly, and Kes Dameron wraps his arms around his son and holds him tight.

Finally Poe takes a deep breath and steps away. “So that’s Mama steering, I’d wager,” he says lightly, and Kes chuckles.

“Where else would she be, lad?” he asks, and takes Poe by the shoulders, looking him up and down, keen eyes spotting bitemarks and bruises, the bandage on Poe’s arm, and his still-bare feet. “Who do I need to kill?”

“No one, Papa,” Poe assures him. “Them as harmed me are quite dead already.”

“Ah?” Kes asks, and turns to glare at Finn, who is standing with his hands conspicuously empty at a safe distance from the angry Pathfinder.

Poe sighs. “Papa, this is Captain Finnaeus -” he grabs his father’s arm before Kes can draw his sword, “who is defecting to the Resistance, and is a good man. I’ll vouch for him.”

Kes raises an eyebrow at his son. “You will?”

“I will. He saw to it that I and the other prisoners were not harmed, then planned our mutiny and our escape.”

Kes taps the bitemark high on Poe’s throat, above the collar of his borrowed shirt. “And this?”

Poe knows he’s blushing; his ears are hot. “...Finn is also my lover, Papa, and I’ll take it as a personal favor if you don’t try to run him through.”

Kes looks at his son searchingly for a long moment, then sighs. “You always did follow your own path, lad,” he says, and turns to hold one hand out to Finn. “If my son will vouch for you, then I’ll not doubt his judgement. Welcome to the Resistance, Captain.”

“I thank you, sir,” Finn says, clasping Kes’ hand carefully. “And if you’ve any crew to spare, I’d take it as a kindness; half my crew is either dead or in the brig.”

Kes gives Finn a long, careful look, then nods. “Aye, we’ve crew to spare. I’ll send some over posthaste; and we can convoy to D’Qar, if that suits you, Captain.”

“That suits me well indeed,” Finn says.

“Now lad,” Kes added, turning back to Poe, “you’ll be coming along on the _Seahawk,_ right?”

“No, Papa,” Poe says, smiling. “I’ll come and tell Mama I’m alright, but I’m the only real steersman Finn’s got, and I shan’t leave him.”

Kes sighed. “It was worth a try,” he grumbles. “Very well - I’ll tell her you’re here, and she’ll come over, so you needn’t leave your lover’s side. Foolish lad,” he adds, and wraps Poe in another embrace. “Don’t scare us so.”

“I’ll do my best,” Poe promises, hugging back as hard as ever he can.

*

“Thank you for not letting your father run me through,” Finn says solemnly that night, as Poe curls up around him. “Or your mother, for that matter.”

“Not going to let my family scare you off,” Poe grumbles, burrowing closer. “I won you fair and square.”

“You won me?” Finn asks, amused. “I seem to remember it a little differently.”

“You’re mine now, aren’t you?” Poe asks pointedly. Finn chuckles and nods. “There we go then. If you’re mine, I must have won you.”

“...I really cannot argue with that,” Finn says at last, through his laughter. And then, sobering, adds, “And will you keep me, my dear one, when we have reached D’Qar? For I am sure there are many who love you -”

“There is only one I love,” Poe says firmly. “And I am sure you will need a steersman, will you not? For Admiral Organa is not so foolish to waste a proven captain and his ship; I am sure you will be sent to sea again once she has heard all you have to tell.”

“You would - you would stay with me?” Finn asks softly. “Be my steersman and my true companion?”

“For all my days,” Poe promises.

“For all my days, my love,” Finn echoes, and pulls Poe into a long, sweet, perfect kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> This will update daily until it is done. It is exceedingly silly. Many thanks to everyone who plotbunnied me and encouraged this madness, and especially to topographical-map-of-utah for the art that kicked off the fic.
> 
> I'm on tumblr as imaginarygolux - drop on by!


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